


Dabai

by yeaka



Series: Red-Lavender [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9697664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Heats are a bit different for Vulcans, but not as much as Spock fears.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is otherwise unrelated to but set in the Red-Lavender series, wherein omegas can apply for Starfleet-sanctioned shore leave for heats, with or without a provided partner.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Eleven crewmembers have piled up, twelve, if he counts the one that won’t _say it_ , and Jim discreetly notifies Starfleet and makes a course correction. The eleven officially-filed omegas get direct communications in their off hours that heat-leave will come on the next Starfleet-sanctioned planet they reach—now only a few days away—and if those in _the program_ want any adjustments to their heat-papers, they’d best file them soon. The twelfth must notice the course change but says nothing, just goes stiffly about his duties, and Jim, trying to respect that space, doesn’t say anything either.

But then he sees the tension on Spock’s face when he accidentally gets too close to Sulu coming out of a turbolift, and Jim knows that going into heat on a bridge full of handsome alphas can’t be easy for anyone, even a Vulcan. He heads off shift even though his replacement is two minutes late, and Sulu slides seamlessly into his chair in the meantime. They must all know, even if no one says it.

Jim has to say _something_ , and he spends the entire walk to his first officer’s quarters wondering if he can really _smell_ Spock’s raging pheromones in the air or of it’s just his imagination. He makes a mental note to ask Bones sometime, when Spock’s too far away to blush over it.

Spock doesn’t lock his quarters—either a Vulcanism or a precaution for emergencies—and they always open for Jim. He strolls right in to find the main living quarters empty, and on the way to Spock’s enclosed bedroom, he passes the computer terminal, checking the screen by habit: Spock’s usually sitting there.

Spock’s now perched on the edge of his bed, still in his uniform, and Jim grunts a, “Hey,” without really looking past those peripherals. A heat-leave application is up, which gives Jim a small smile, until he sees that the ‘existing partner’ box isn’t checked, and the curser is flashing in the ‘alpha request’ section. The only word written is ‘someone,’ with no adjectives yet. Jim can feel his frown sinking even before he turns to Spock.

Spock hasn’t looked at him either. Hunched over with uncharacteristically bad posture, Spock has one elbow on each knee and his mouth pressed against steepled fingers. With two meters still between them, Jim can _sense_ the wave of turmoil in Spock’s body, one medication can never completely erase. Jim doesn’t know if there even _is_ medication that works on human-Vulcan hybrids. He doesn’t know if Spock would tell Bones about his heat at all, and that gives Jim the irksome feeling that he should’ve done something about this sooner. He should know that as logical as Spock is, he’s prone to stubbornness and suffering in silence. He shouldn’t have to do that with Jim around.

He finally turns his head enough to glance at Jim, and Jim still has to be the first to say, as devoid of any accusation as he can, “You’re requesting Starfleet match you with an alpha?” That’s what most omegas do. But not most with a bond like Kirk and Spock. Or at least, what Jim thought they had.

A struggle flitters across Spock’s face that wouldn’t be there if his tipping point weren’t so close. His fight to rein his expression in is palpable. He finally answers, forcibly deadpanned, “It would be inappropriate.”

Jim snorts. “Then the way I feel about you is already inappropriate, and it’s happening anyway.”

Spock doesn’t reply. Jim doesn’t voice the sudden worry he has—that Spock’s forms were about to say _Someone of Vulcan descent._ Even if Jim hasn’t officially announced it, they’re right on course for Mrennenimus II, and there’s an existing Starfleet scientific settlement there that’ll likely include Vulcans, at least one of which has to be an alpha, statistically speaking. And Spock’s always trying so damn hard to be _Vulcan_.

Jim thought Spock loved him anyway. But Spock’s still _Spock_ , and he finally pushes off the bed, strolling right past Jim to turn off the computer. The damage is already done. He keeps his eyes averted when he says, “I... apologize, Captain. ...I simply did not wish to... risk... this.” It sounds like he’s searching for the right words, but he doesn’t have any more.

Jim turns fully to Spock, willing Spock to look at him, and quietly asks, “You think forty-eight hours of Starfleet-sanctioned vacation will risk it?”

“You do not understand.”

“No, I don’t.”

Spock shifts uncomfortably. It’s worse for Jim to see that loss of control than the emotion itself, because he knows Spock must be internally beating himself up over the display. Spock tries to explain, “Vulcans do not... our heats are considerably different than the Terran variety.”

“And I don’t go through heat at all. Since when is us being different a problem?”

Jim reaches for Spock’s hand, slipping deftly around it, his index finger dragging down Spock’s lifeline, and Spock shivers for it, glancing down at the touch and murmuring, “I will not be... _nice_... like a human omega.”

Jim doesn’t know what that means and doesn’t need to. “You’re half human.”

“And half Vulcan, and Vulcans in heat are...” He has to stop, maybe because Jim’s wrapped around his index and middle finger and given a little squeeze. Spock licks his lips, drawing Jim’s eyes to them, takes a steadying breath, and continues in a raspy whisper: “violent, aggressive, difficult...”

Jim retracts his grip to readjust and thread all ten fingers together. He encases Spock’s hand tightly in his and takes a minute to savour the quick spark of _warmth_ , the strengthening of their connection that always ebbs between them. When they touch like this, Jim feels like he has a place in Spock’s physical mind, heart, body. He’s sure Spock can feel it too. He didn’t know that about Vulcans. They don’t _talk_ about these things like he should. But Bones did frown and grumble about the lack of Vulcan medical files, and Jim was prepared for _something_ different. He can’t picture Spock being too difficult for him, not with what they have, no matter how new it is. He asks, “You don’t think I can handle that?”

Spock looks up from their hands, and Jim knows that Spock’s eyeing his curved brows, his rounded ears, the pinkish tint of his eyelids instead of Vulcan-green. Spock says too-seriously, “I do not want to find out.” It isn’t like him to shy away from information.

But Jim’s sure and lifts Spock’s hand to his mouth, kissing the back of Spock’s knuckles. He trusts their connection and admits, “I’ve been looking forward to going through this together ever since you first confessed the feelings were mutual. I know you’re from another world than me. But I also know that some things are universal, at least with races who have alphas and omegas, and I want this to strengthen us rather than pull us apart. We’re going to be at an appropriate planet in a few days, and you’re going to need release then if not sooner.” With a short pause, he adds, almost forgetting, “Unless you want to go the medication route, but...” But it’s still hard. For all Bones’ hard work, it can’t be as good a cure as the natural course. He still half expects Spock to opt to stay in sickbay. 

But Spock slowly nods, and his thumb lightly caresses the back of Jim’s hand. Jim drops them both so he can lean in to kiss Spock’s cheek. 

He goes for Spock’s mouth, lifting his free hand to gently cup Spock’s jaw, but a chaste peck is all he gets. Spock murmurs against him, “I require rest...”

And Jim, even though he wants to stay, hears the implied ‘ _alone_ ’ in Spock’s voice. So he just insists, “Call me if you need anything,” and leaves.

* * *

It’s a relief to finally be in the transporter room, after the other crewmembers have already beamed to their respective locations. Bones comes with them to stand next to the console and glare, even though Jim knows he’d complain just as much if they all stayed in sickbay. In Bones’ defense, Spock hasn’t been forthcoming about his medical needs, and Jim’s spent the last few days playing referee between them. He’s just glad he was born an alpha—he can’t imagine what his mother hen of a best friend would be like if he had those medical needs too.

He’s reminded one last time, “Use the hypospray if the hobgoblin gets jumpy.”

Spock, tense at Jim’s side, says nothing to the affectionate insult, which Jim knows isn’t a good sign. He gives Bones a lackluster smile and doesn’t say that he won’t be hypospraying his boyfriend, no matter what the circumstances. Scotty gives them a cheerful, “Have fun, Sir, Mr. Spock,” and punches in the sequence.

The world dissipates, there’s a split second where Jim thinks his katra is just _existing_ next to Spock’s, and then they’re standing in a gorgeous gardenscape before a large wooden cabin. As soon as they’re properly materialized, Jim twists to take in the whole view; they’re high in the mountains, and in the distance, Jim can see the far-off settlement of the valley, nestled at the foot of a lake. Various other cabins are scattered about the area, most lost in the enormous greenery. Trees dot the horizon. The clouds look close enough to touch. The bottom half of their cabin is lost behind reaching shrubbery and high, potted plants, most of which Jim’s never seen before in his life. The flowers planted directly in the earth are arranged in deliberate swirls of bright colours, while those in planters are puffs of clashing hues like half-exploded fireworks. The air is crisp, pleasantly warm, and smells of pine and fir. 

Spock is stock still, and when Jim looks at him, he wavers. Jim braces suddenly against his arm, ready should he fall, but a sharp breath, and Spock seems to recover. He lifts a hand to his temple at the ghost of the spell, then says, “I am fine.”

“Are you?” Jim asks, in that way that says he’ll drop it if he has to, but he doesn’t want to.

Spock seems to hesitate, then admits, “The combined floral scents of this garden are... quite strong.”

And Vulcans have a better sense of smell. Jim nods and doesn’t relinquish his grip, just readjusts to hold Spock’s arm more like a boyfriend than a bodyguard. He doesn’t try to take Spock’s bag, because he knows Spock will only fight him. His own hangs heavy at his side, full of extra clothes and toiletries and a medkit Bones shoved in. Even though he knows Spock doesn’t want to hear it, he adds, “You don’t have to be strong right now, you know. You’re on leave, and you have me here. It’s okay.”

To his surprise, Spock doesn’t repeat that he’s well, only says a shaky, “Thank you.” It tells Jim Spock’s farther along than he thought. He should have set to a higher warp factor—Scotty’s engines be damned. But it’s too late now. He snakes his hand down Spock’s arm until their fingers are intertwined again, and it’s easier to tug Spock forward. 

The nonsensical maze of flowers lets into a central walkway, a long stretch of clear grass towards the front porch, the sides and makeshift ceiling lined in ivy-covered arches. It’s a magical scene, one that Jim hopes they have time to enjoy once the worst of Spock’s heat has passed. They’re halfway to the house when Jim notices a tiny metal ball poking out of the base of one of the arches.

He doesn’t have time to say anything, much less fish a phaser out of his bag, before it bursts to life, shooting a jet of clear water right into their path. The peaceful road becomes an instant crisscross of diagonal fountains, and Jim doesn’t stop walking fast enough to avoid getting soaked. The arches are too close together to squeeze between, and it leaves nowhere to go but forward or back, both equally flooded distances, so all Jim can do is tighten his grip on Spock’s hand and dart forward. Spock follows suit, and they brave one pressurized splash after the other.

By the time they’re stumbling out and onto the wooden porch, Jim’s drenched from head to foot, his boots dragging puddles off the grass and his hair plastered to his eyes. He tries to push it away and has to shift his waterlogged bag off his shoulder. It hits the porch with a heavy squelching noise. The weather’s tepid, but not enough to combat the instant chill of wet clothes. 

When he’s got his face wiped off enough to see and breathe properly, Jim looks aside at Spock, who’s fared no better. The only difference is that seeing Spock’s already-trim clothes clinging to his taut frame elicits quite a different response. Spock must not be wearing another shirt underneath, because his blue tunic’s molded perfectly to the contours of his toned chest, every line of muscle now highlighted and shimmering in the early sun. 

He looks at Jim, his eyes catching on Jim’s chest, and he seems to have the same reaction. Jim tries to wrench his gaze back up to Spock’s face.

Spock’s expression progress swiftly from surprise to _hunger_ , until the emotion-stifled Vulcan is gone and a ravenous animal is left—Jim gets the distinct impression that Spock wants to eat him alive. 

He’s sure he can handle that. He can feel his own body rising to the challenge, ready and rearing to go, his alphas genes sensing a lustful omega and wanting to _pounce_ , especially when that omega is wildly _handsome_ and already smells like _his mate_ —every part of Spock, dripping wet and ripe, entices Jim, makes him hotter, harder—he could pin Spock up against the side of the cabin right now, thrust one leg between his thighs, open him up and—

But Spock reels back, grunts, “I must go change,” clutches his bag protectively against his stomach, and hurriedly pushes in through the open door.

He takes the first bedroom on their left, shuts the door, and Jim’s left to release a frustrated hiss and let it be.

* * *

He has to change too and settles into a plaid shirt and jeans. It’s the sort of thing there’s never a good occasion for, but he’ll never get a better chance than a cabin in the mountains. He spends most of the afternoon trying to occupy himself, always with one ear out for Spock, but Spock’s still pseudo-reserved, and Jim lets him. It’s not how Jim thought his first real heat with a boyfriend would be. He’s had a few one-nighters before, mostly in the program at the Academy, and he always had to properly _take care_ of omegas then. But Spock doesn’t have another weak spell like he did in the garden, he eats on his own, and naps in strange places like an oversized cat. And Jim just sort of follows at a distance, keeping an eye out, and ready any minute should Spock need him. 

By the time a silent lunch is over, Jim can’t take it anymore. He sees Spock curled into a seat at the bay window, looking out at the gardens behind the safety of the glass, and he just can’t keep his distance anymore. Spock has a blue v-neck sweater that’s just a little too big for him, and it makes Jim wonder if his mother made it for him—he doesn’t seem the type to buy clothes that don’t exactingly fit. He probably doesn’t know how gorgeous he is, lit on one side by the bright sun and the chocolate hues of the fire-lit cabin on the other. His high cheekbones, his strong jaw, his flawlessly straight haircut and the depth of his eyes are so quintessentially _Spock_ that it makes it hard for Jim to think of anyone else at all. Far away from even the hum of their bridge, it’s like they’re the only two left in the world. Spock’s the only person Jim could stand that with. 

Spock’s all Jim wants, and he eventually wanders closer with a large Terran box he’s fished out of the cabin’s tiny attic. 

“I found a chessboard,” he offers, mentally kicking himself for not bringing _theirs_. He could have Scotty beam it down, but that feels like cheating. “It’s the classic version—not 3D—but...” he trails off. But it doesn’t matter. They could play ticktacktoe and still be happy together. 

Spock gives the box a dispassionate look, and Jim settles onto the other side of the built-in bench and starts unpacking the box anyway. They have to sit tight against the glass to fit the box between, but it’s worth it for the view the bay windows give. The sprinklers are still going in certain places. Jim hasn’t figured out how to turn them off. The pieces on the chessboard are brown and white—Jim selects brown on a whim and starts setting up the painted-wood pieces. 

Spock doesn’t help but does make the first move. Just one pawn forward. Jim wonders vaguely if this is fair—can Spock play like this? Can he think with all the pheromones pushing at his mind? With the other omegas Jim had—at least, the three human ones—he had medication to give them during it to ease the flow. But Spock hasn’t told him anything of that, and all Bones could do is shrug. Jim debates going easy before realizing he can’t—Spock will know. 

Spock spends too long making the next move after Jim’s, considering they’re still on opening gambits, but Jim’s patient. When Spock eventually pushes a castle forward, then looks back out the window, Jim notes, “It’s a lot more lush here than Vulcan’s desert, huh?”

Spock opens his mouth, but takes a minute before revealing, “My mother cultivates thriving gardens. She... would like this place.” 

Jim just nods and doesn’t know what to say. It’s unusual for Spock. Distinctly _vulnerable._ Jim takes it as a good sign that Spock feels comfortable with him. He moves his horse, then decides, “If we know far enough in advance, we can try to schedule your next heat for New Vulcan.” 

Spock says, “That isn’t necessary.” But he said it so quickly that Jim thinks he’d still _like_ it.

Jim switches tactics and suggests, “Do you want to play strip chess?” On the off chance Spock wants his more-sexually-open boyfriend to ease him into it. 

But Spock says simply, “No,” so Jim doesn’t bring it up again and takes Spock’s queen.

* * *

Dinner is still a quiet but intimate affair, where Spock accepts what Jim’s Synthesized without complaint, Jim serves it, and Jim sits on the same side as Spock, always within arm’s reach. Spock doesn’t directly look at him, but Jim can feel Spock’s presence pushing at his mind as though just to confirm that he’s _there_. Jim’s a warm embrace just waiting to happen. 

When it’s finished and Jim’s got their dishes in the depository, he wanders up the creaking staircase to the second floor. Spock’s clothes are unpacked downstairs, but Jim’s are in the sprawling master suite, and Spock follows him to the sliding glass doors and the balcony beyond. He means to watch the sunset out the back of the house, but instead he finds winding stairs leading down onto the veranda, and he gravitates there automatically.

The rolling hills behind the property are as flower-speckled as the front, but these are wild and natural, as opposed to the organized, foreign, exotic bouquet of the universal front. Maybe it’s because the flowers _belong_ together and aren’t competing, but Spock seems less bothered by the aroma. It’s grown a tad cool, or at least, probably is for Spock, even if Jim’s still fine in just his flannel shirt. He catches Spock’s wrist just in case, taking quick measure of Spock’s pulse. Spock’s more sensitive to cold than Jim is, but here he feels like he’s _boiling_.

He gently pulls himself free of Jim’s grasp and wades forward. The tall grass and reaching blossoms and stretched leaves rise up to their waists. Starfleet’s assured them it’s safe—would _never_ sanction heat-leave otherwise—but Jim still doesn’t let Spock get too far from him. The earth beneath their feet is pleasantly soft, the slanting hill not steep enough to be any concern. Every time the wind stirs up around Jim, he can smell Spock on it. The childish part of his brain wants to latch on to Spock around the middle and send them both toppling down the hillside, rolling around each other until they’re nestled safely in a valley between, but he saves that for another day. 

He follows until Spock comes to a halt, maybe half a kilometer from the cabin, left in the middle of nowhere with the wilderness all around him. Jim slows his own steps just to savour the beauty of it. The feeling of being out in nature with Spock, their connection lingering through the brisk air like a bright red string, is the sort of thing Jim dreams of. If he’s ever forced to retire, this is what he’ll do with it. He’ll go find some mountains to climb and make sure Spock’s at the base, maybe Bones, and they’ll go home to a humble little cabin together and stare up at the stars.

The alien sky is a magnificent purple-blue vista. A red nebula shimmers where Earth’s moon would be, the stars twice as numerous to make up for it. Spock looks up at it all, ethereal and perfect. Jim wades the extra distance, the foliage around him bristling over his jeans and tickling his bare hands. Insects like cricket-cicadas hum in the far distance, their crunched leaves the only other sound. Jim doesn’t know if he should tug Spock back to the cabin or find a nice, secluded place in the woods where Spock can be _free_.

He just waits, until Spock disconnects from the stars and turns to look at Jim, standing right beside him. The way they’re supposed to be.

One second they’re looking at one another, eyes reflecting the lights of the heavens, and the next, Jim’s thrown to the ground—his skull snaps against the earth hard enough to see new stars. If the dirt were any harder and the grass didn’t break his fall, he’d probably need Bones. Instead, he catches his breath while Spock adjusts atop him, one knee to either side of his waist and one hand on either shoulder. Jim blinks up at Spock through a dizzy fog—the tall flora closes in around them again, cocooning the tent of Spock’s body, to diffuse the light. Jim sees half by what little’s left and half by the bond between them. Spock’s fingers dig through his shirt like claws.

Spock’s face is locked in a feral snarl, and he smashes down before Jim’s ready, crushing their mouths together. Jim barely has time to gasp. Spock’s tongue pries right past his lips, then shoves down his throat, filling him up, and he makes a choking noise, body snapping to life—he pushes at Spock’s shoulders, and Spock parts them just enough for Jim to fumble for air. 

Spock snarls and tilts to nip at Jim’s jaw, then bite in _hard_ , and Jim has to grit his teeth together and his. His grip tightens on Spock’s shoulder, but he doesn’t push Spock away again—he knows what’s happened. He waited too long and Spock just _snapped_.

Spock’s rock hard. He bucks down and drags his crotch against Jim’s, setting into a rolling motion he repeats again and again, letting Jim know exactly how interested he is. Jim can’t help but follow suit, albeit slower—it’s hard to get instantly in the mood with the ache of the fall still lingering. But he’s Spock’s alpha and he sucks it up. If this is what Spock needs, it’s not a problem. 

Spock seems to need as much of _Jim_ as he can get, one way or another. He mouths at Jim’s face, scraping blunt teeth along Jim’s cheek, biting at his neck, clawing at his uniform and grinding into his crotch. If Jim had the room, he’d push up and get their clothes off, because he has a feeling it’s about to get far too hot in their makeshift warren. Spock spreads his fingers across Jim’s chest and squeezes, kneading Jim’s pecs right through the cloth, then runs his hands down to slip underneath the shirt, and suddenly he’s ripping it open—Jim can hear the buttons snapping off and is sure they’ll be lost forever in the grass. It doesn’t matter. He can Synthesize new ones. He lets Spock tear the entire thing open. 

He cups Spock’s face in his hands and tries to guide Spock back for proper kisses, because they won’t have enough time for bruises to heal before they go aboard again, and in this state, Spock doesn’t seem to have any problem with marking up his captain. He still surrenders to the kiss easily enough, his mouth resealing to Jim’s like he never left. His hands can’t seem to stop pawing at Jim’s body, tracing and squeezing and _touching_ everything. Jim slips his own fingers beneath the hem of Spock’s sweater and finds Spock’s stomach sizzling hot. His skin doesn’t usually do that when they fuck. But Spock’s not usually this... _animal_.

Spock’s ravenous. He pushes at Jim’s pants next, trying to force the material down Jim’s hips and growling into Jim’s mouth when it resists. Jim helps by popping open his fly and giving the room, and as soon as Spock’s pushed the pants far enough, his cock’s springing out. The cooling air makes him grunt, but Spock quickly flattens atop it and warms him up again. Spock grinds into Jim’s bared cock like it’s all he ever wanted, and Jim moans over each press against Spock’s smooth stomach. He can feel Spock’s bulge pulsing against his thigh but can’t fit between them any more to do anything about it. He wants to try passing a message through their bond but can’t concentrate enough so just winds up drowning in the existing sensations. Spock humps him hard enough to leave his whole body feeling raw.

Spock runs shaking hands along Jim’s hips, twists underneath to lift Jim off the ground, and kneads Jim’s ass—Jim bites off another groan and catches Spock’s tongue with his own, sucking it for reward. He gets an idea and tries to start on Spock’s pants from the back, though it’s slow going, but each new centimeter he reveals of Spock’s cheeks is worth the wait—he keeps stopping to slap and squeeze. He tries to stay on task. But he never gets tired of Spock’s body. When he’s got Spock’s pants down halfway, he realizes that his thigh’s turning wet, and he slips his hand under to feel the bulge of Spock’s dick, the fabric moist and clinging. It takes a bit of work around Spock’s ever-moving hips, but Jim manages to get hold of Spock’s fly and open it enough to let Spock’s member thrust out, leaking profusely into Jim’s waiting hand.   
Spock doesn’t usually drip so much, but evidently, his heat works by different rules. Jim knows Spock isn’t coming yet, but the precum’s more than his usual loads. Jim gives Spock’s shaft a little squeeze and moans as it oozes onto his fingers. At least he knows they won’t have to go back for lube—not if past experiences with Spock’s seed is anything to go by. The more Jim gathers it up, the more Spock humps his hand. 

He means to gather some up and start on Spock’s hole, but he doesn’t get a chance—Spock bites hard into his lip, and while he’s busy crying out, Spock’s leaning back and grabbing Jim beneath the knees, then surging forward again, bending Jim in two—his legs are forced against his chest with Spock bearing down to hold him in place. It lets Spock grind his cock right against Jim’s ass, Jim’s dick now trapped between his stomach and rolled-down pants. Spock returns to Jim’s mouth without missing a beat, and it’s all Jim can do to grab at Spock’s shoulder.

Spock pushes at his hole without any rhyme or reason. It drags against Jim’s cheeks and makes him wince, even with all the lubrication it smears along his crack, but Spock can’t seem to do any better. Jim tries to send a ripple of thought, memories of proper _preparation_ through their bond, but it’s like Spock’s completely devolved and can’t hear him. Just when Jim thinks Spock’s going to spear him open without it, Spock thrusts both hands between Jim’s legs and grabs Jim’s cheeks, pulling them apart, thumbs catching near his entrance. Spock’s dick nudges it again, pushing harder, but when it pulls back, Spock’s thumb shoves inside again. Jim yelps into Spock’s mouth—it’s still too big—but a glob of seed eases the way, and Spock pushes in deeper with more grace than he’d anticipated. Spock pushes in and out a few times, fucking Jim open, before adding the other thumb and stretching Jim wide. Jim does his best to just take it, lets himself get distracted and lost in the pleasure instead, in the warmth of Spock’s body over him and the comfort of Spock’s presence, the smell of him, the touch of him, the way his mouth tastes. The position’s wholly uncomfortable, Spock’s weight not helping, and his back’s bent awkwardly along the hill, but the rest of it is worth it. He could kiss Spock anywhere. He focuses on Spock’s mouth while Spock stretches his hole wider and wider and drenches it in precum.

Then the fingers are pulling away, and Spock’s dick is pushing in, the spongy head popping past Jim’s tight ring of muscle on the first go. It’s still too wide, forcing Jim’s walls to flutter and clench around it, but Jim knows the drill and pulls himself back, sinking down, trying to relax, trying to open, while his boyfriend rams into him harder and harder. 

Spock has no mercy like this. There’s no pause. He just pushes in, forcing past all resistance, until he’s fully seated and Jim’s sure he’s going to break from it. His throat feels hoarse, even though he’s not sure he was screaming. Spock doesn’t give him room to breathe. He’s dizzy but holds onto Spock anyway, trying to enjoy the feeling of being _full_ of Spock’s dick. 

Spock grinds inside for a minute like marking territory, then wrenches out and slams back inside, with a feral roar and enough force to dent the earth. Jim chokes, crying out around Spock’s mouth and latching on, and before he’s recovered from that first thrust, he gets another—Spock rolls into him, does it again, and starts to brutally fuck him, pounding into his human body with Vulcan strength, more than Jim’s built to take, but he couldn’t protest even if he wanted too—doesn’t have the words or breath. Spock fills him with tongue and cock all at once, move in a never ending, tribal rhythm far beyond Jim’s capacity. His hole’s sore in no time, his thighs tender from being slapped by Spock’s hips and his chest crushed under his own legs and Spock looming over him. Spock’s hands are everywhere, touching everything. When their lips part for a split second, he finds Spock’s fingers suddenly in his mouth, pressing down his tongue and stroking at his sides, and he has to fight not to gag. Then they’re out again, dragging his own saliva down his throat, and Spock’s mouth is back, sealing him up again. He doesn’t even have room to scream like he wants to. Spock’s become a monster. 

_Jim’s_ monster. He can’t contact Spock through their bond. He can’t whisper in his mind the usual little courtesies, the reassuring _I love you_ s and the gentle familiarity, but he can still feel Spock there. Under it all. Spock’s a torrential storm. It’s bent on fill Jim up and taking Jim over, and he has to fight for consciousness. He doesn’t even think about his own cock, his own pleasure. He can feel Spock pumping more seed into him and wishes distantly that he could return the favour. Maybe this is what Vulcan mating’s like. Maybe Vulcan alphas are even _more_ aggressive, and Jim’s supposed to be assessing a mate and breeding only the strongest. 

Jim can barely take it. His orgasm hits him suddenly and blindly, out of nowhere, slamming right into his stomach—he roars into Spock’s mouth and bursts between them, sullying only his own skin and clothes. Spock doesn’t miss a single beat. Spock fucks him right through it while he flounders in weightlessness and no sense of time, proportion, propriety. There’s no time to come down. 

He doesn’t think Spock’s close. Spock’s cock is one of Scotty’s heavy-duty machines, set on autopilot, maybe gone mad and out of control. Jim harbours it anyway. Jim weakly tries to keep up with Spock’s slew of kisses and holds onto Spock where he can. He can feel the mass of cum being pounded into his ass, not having enough room in his already-stuffed insides, and dribbling down his cheeks to pool beneath him. He’s only distantly aware that they’re in the middle of an open field, and he’s getting his brains fucked out in arguably public.

He can feel himself getting hard again, building again, even though he’s sure the first took everything out of him and he doesn’t have a single drop left to spill. When Spock finds his wrists and pries them away, they’re boneless and easy to pin to the ground. Spock holds them there, index and middle fingers pressed against his pulse. _Spock_ was supposed to be the vulnerable one. But Jim lies weakly beneath his lover and surrenders to the slaughter, until he can feel another orgasm rising, and his vision blurring in and out, and the string of consciousness fading away. 

He passes out with Spock’s tongue still in his mouth and Spock’s dick still in his ass, and a lake of Spock’s seed all around him.

* * *

When he wakes again, it’s foggy; his head’s pounding, and his entire rear is sore. The whole area. He feels like he’s been spanked raw and had a Klingon-sized vibrator stuck in him for days.

But judging from the sky, it hasn’t been more than an hour, and they’re still out in the field, Spock so close against Jim’s side that their limbs are all entangled. 

They’ve crushed the flowers. Spock’s dented enough that the air’s open again above straight walls of grass. Jim’s thighs are sticky, drenched. His shirt’s only on by the sleeves. He can feel Spock’s slender cock semi-hard at his hip, and Spock’s sweater-covered torso draped over his. Spock’s chin is on his shoulder. 

Spock’s panting hard, even though Jim’s seen him scale mountains without missing a breath, and when Jim nudges his nose to turn his face, his eyes are distant. It takes a moment for them to refocus on Jim. Jim first mumbles: “How long?”

It takes Spock an abnormally long moment to answer, “Thirty-seven minutes.”

The accuracy says he’s getting better, but the lack of a seconds count says he isn’t fully there yet. The fact that he knew what Jim meant—how long Jim was out—is a good sign. 

Then Spock averts his eyes to somewhere off to the left, bows his head onto Jim’s chest again, and murmurs, “I am sorry.” 

Jim opens his mouth to brush it off, but as his brain clears, he senses it’s more than that. Spock’s become as limp as him, but Spock’s knuckles have tension in them, fingers gripping just a tad too hard to Jim’s torn shirt. Before Jim says a word, he presses a kiss to Spock’s head through the sweat-slicked black hair, his arm weaseling out from under Spock to wrap securely around Spock’s back, pulling him that extra bit closer. Jim says firmly, half in his captain’s tone, “There’s nothing to apologize for.” Then, because he can’t help a cheeky grin even if Spock isn’t looking to see it, he adds, “Pretty amazing, actually—who knew you were so wild in bed under all that Vulcan control.”

Spock stiffens but doesn’t rise to the bait, just repeats, “I am sorry.”

Jim gives his back a small, cyclical rub, and insists, “It’s fine. I mean it.”

“You passed out,” Spock mutters, a thin edge of bitterness to his carefully neutral voice. “I was unruly to the point that I damaged my _t’hy’la_ —”

“You didn’t damage me—you just made me come so hard I couldn’t stay awake. Twice. A lot of humans would consider that a plus.”

If it were in his nature, Spock would probably snort in disbelief. Instead he just plays with the flannel corner of Jim’s shirt while Jim’s sweaty middle rises and falls with his still-a-little-laboured breathing. They both need a shower. And some sterilization tools so the next couple to get the cabin doesn’t step in their mess.

But that’ll all come after Spock’s taken care of, and when Jim’s finally recovered enough, he slowly pushes up. Spock’s forced to rise with him, until they’re both sitting there, Jim trying to hide his wince as he shifts the weight off his rear. Then he searches the darkness for Spock’s hand and clutches it tightly in his, so Spock can more easily read through their bond the same thing Jim’ll say aloud: “I mean it, Spock. Crazed or not, that was a fun ride. And you can’t know how glad I am that you went on it with me instead of some random Vulcan.”

“I... ‘topped’... you,” Spock mutters, clearly fumbling around the word, maybe one that has no Vulcan equivalent. “Human omegas...”

“Can top too,” Jim clarifies, a new thread of concern wriggling in. “I mean, maybe it doesn’t happen often during heats, but it’s not about that... who told you otherwise? If it was Scotty, it was probably after too many drinks, and if it was Bones after the same—well, no, even drunk I can’t see him giving you sex tips...”

Spock reveals no sources, only presses, “Statistically speaking, most humans—”

“Are heterosexual. You going to apologize for that too?”

Spock closes his mouth, frowning, and Jim can’t help a small smirk of victory. Jim squeezes his hand to ease the lot, and Spock’s cheeks light green, their connection flaring up again.

They sit there and let the night sink in again. The cricket-cicadas are quieter than when they started, and the lights of their cabin look brighter in the distance, from what Jim can see around their forest of grass. Just when he’s about to try and get up to head back to that cabin for a shower and a rest, Spock whispers, “I will want you again.” He says it like it changes everything.

It changes nothing. Jim leans forward to peck the side of Spock’s mouth, then settles back down in their crushed bed of greenery. If there’s more of that last round coming, he can’t waste any strength walking back. He’ll need all the rest he can get. He tugs at Spock’s sleeve until Spock’s climbing back down beside him. He asks, “How many?”

“Two or three,” Spock admits. “If they become too strenuous, I—”

“Will turn to your alpha, who vowed to take care of your needs. That’s an order, Commander.”

Spock doesn’t answer.

But a few minutes later, he murmurs, “I love you,” and then the _lust_ takes over his eyes again, and they consummate under the stars.


End file.
